


don't wake a sleepwalker

by Somewillseekforgiveness



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean Winchester, Dubious Consent, M/M, Not Beta Read, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Sleepwalking, Somnophilia, Sorry Not Sorry, This is trash, unrealistic sleepwalking mechanics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:02:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26691892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somewillseekforgiveness/pseuds/Somewillseekforgiveness
Summary: Dean had learned the hard way that waking Sam up in the middle of an episode was a bad idea. If the flinging fists weren't enough, a hot pan full of food chucked at his face was sure to do the trick.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 3
Kudos: 58





	1. Night 1

**Author's Note:**

> don't @ me with sleepwalking facts, I'm sure this is bullshit but...*shrugs* I had a story demon I had to exorcise.
> 
> read the tags!

“You...have something on your...”

Dean looked down, half expecting to be flicked in the nose. But instead Sam dabbed at something on his tie, fretting like a mother hen. Dean tried to ignore how close they were.

Dean cleared his throat. “Thanks, Sammy.”

Sam rolled his eyes, looked away.

They walked together up to the witness, flipping out their badges like they were born in black suits.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sam had a habit of brushing past Dean from behind. Normal brothers would think nothing of it, but normal had never been part of Dean's vocabulary. It wasn't Dean's fault, he insisted. The brushes were...lingering. Even when there was plenty room. Sam would place his gigantic hands on Dean's shoulders, so heavy as to push him downward—yeah, Dean's mind didn't make _anything_ out of that.

But this time was different.

“Dean, move,” Sam growled, pressing him into the wall of their—admittedly tiny—hotel room. Dean froze, a huff leaving his mouth without his say-so at being manhandled. _Nope. Not touching that_.

“If you weren't so freakishly big--”

“Oh, grow up, Dean. You're always in my way.”

Dean said nothing else, breathing in and out methodically, willing his partial boner to go down before exposing his front to Sam.

“Am I allowed to move yet?” Dean snarked.

“By all means,” Sam mocked, bowing and gesturing as if showing the way to a king. He got a plastic cup out of the cupboard and filled it with tap water.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Dean closed the hotel door behind him, rolling his neck and wiping his fingers on his jeans.

“Where were you?” Sam called from his bed, trying to be casual but failing to keep the anxiety from creeping into his voice.

Dean grumbled.

Sam got up from where he'd been drinking and reading up on a possible next case--tulpa gone amok—and strode over to Dean. Instantly, he was overwhelmed with the rich scent of tobacco and leather--who the fuck even smells like that--and like the heroine in some bodice-ripper B movie, Sam nearly swooned. He thought he covered it well in a calculated grimace, stepping back.

“God, Dean, have you been _smoking_?” Sam whined as if the scent didn't make him want to burrow his face in Dean's neck and suck and lick until—

“Yeah? And who said that was your business, Health Boy?”

Sam gave him a withering look, saying, “You _make_ it my business when you reek like that.” 

Dean's tough-guy stance deflated slightly. His eyes flicked around on the ground briefly until snapping back to cut right through him. A smirk creeped into the corners of his lips. Dean said nothing. Sam felt his stomach drop with unease.

“Kill yourself with those things,” Sam muttered. He lumbered back to the bed, acting put out to have lost this round of pointless bickering. In reality, he was relieved to be as far as he could be from Dean. Sam closed his eyes, pretended to be tired, but his heart was racing. 

Dean just shrugged off his jacket and flopped onto the other bed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Dean shot awake. The first thing he registered was someone's fingers sprawling across his stomach. The hand was massive. All his muscles tensed and shivered in harmonics like a bowstring suddenly drawn taut. Until he realized the form he felt behind him was Sam. Sam's breath roared in his ear and cascaded down his neck, drawing goosebumps. It smelled like beer. Dean took in a shaky breath.

“Sammy,” he whispered. That nickname would have been enough to summon Sam from the grave.

No answer. Sam was sleepwalking.

Dean had learned the hard way that waking Sam up in the middle of an episode was a bad idea. If the flinging fists weren't enough, a hot pan full of food chucked at his face was sure to do the trick. Maybe before the twerp had left for Stanford, when he was a teenager, Dean could have taken him. But now...Sam had at least 20 pounds of muscle on him that seemed to grow more—not less—capable when he was asleep.

Dean tried to slowly work himself out of Sam's embrace, but the larger man only entwined himself tighter around Dean. So Dean gritted his teeth. No choice but to wait. Right? Fool-proof plan.

Sam hummed in Dean's ear, crushed his chest tighter to his front. Long, skeletal fingers guided Dean's hips gently into Sam's.

Dean froze.

Sam was _hard._

Hard, and thrusting lazily against the crack of Dean's ass.

Sam's hand wandered past the elastic band of Dean's boxers. Dean squeaked, glared at the ceiling like he was cursing God. But if there was anything to be mad at God about, it was that He was calling him on his bluff.

Callouses on Sam's hands brushed sensitive skin on his hips. Dean keened, heart clenching at even the slightest noise in the near silent room. He was rock hard. When did that happen? He willed Sam's hand to travel lower. Just a little bit...

Sam's thrusts got harder, rubbing the fabric of Dean's boxers roughly against his hole. It was an odd, but pleasurable feeling that had Dean thinking of what it would be like to be fucked. If just having something touch it through fabric was good... 

Sam finally closed around Dean's leaking cock, and Dean had to bite his cheek to keep from crying out. What Sam did wasn't exactly skillful. It was sloppy, unfocused, but his hand was twisting savagely at the head in a way that was pushing Dean further and further into delirium. 

Sam's other hand reached up Dean's shirt to grope his chest, tweaking his nipple. Dean yelped. Again he steeled himself for Sam to wake, anything to stop this before it went too far. Before Dean had to admit to himself he hadn't wanted it to stop. But it didn't come.

The rhythm of Sam's thrusts became more erratic, and Dean could hear—and feel—Sam's breathing do the same.

“Fuck, D'n,” Sam slurred in Dean's ear, biting the flesh at the base of his neck. Dean gasped at the sound of his name on Sam's lips. The filthiness of being trapped and humped and groped by the sleeping Sam was too much, and he came harder than he had in months, spilling over Sam's hand. Finally Sam's hips gave one last thrust and stayed glued to Dean's ass. Wetness spread across the back of his boxers.

Sam had just come on his ass.

A sickening mix of shame and horror and arousal shot through Dean and settled in his stomach. He lay still in silence, his chest heaving, expecting a belligerent and confused Sam to awake and slap him in the face. But no. Sam's breathing slowed. His iron grip didn't loosen, though Dean hardly noticed.

Years, Dean thought. Years of torturing himself, of the clamber of his secret thoughts of Sam becoming too loud to ignore. So many nights spent burning out the images his mind created with porn and taking cold shower after cold shower. Nights where he pretended not to hear the rustling of Sam's sheets and pretended not to imagine what they meant. And it had ended in this.

Sam muttered his name and came on his ass in his sleep.

But Sam didn't dream of Dean. Did he?

Sam's sinewy arms were slowly moving along his body. Exploring, touching, but never giving relief. And now Sam was hard again, too—the fucking animal—moving his hips in little circles. Dean whimpered. God, if he could just...reach his cock. Already it ached.

Sam's fingers slid Dean's boxers down until they gathered just below Dean's ass. Dean huffed, grinding his hips back into Sam's. Sam was completely naked below the waist, and his bare cock was now slotted perfectly into Dean's ass crack. It brushed softly, experimentally, against Dean's hole, slipping across smoothly with Sam's precum. His hole fluttered in surprise and Sam moaned, grinding harder against him.

Dean's heart raced and strained. Surely, Sam wouldn't—

And then Sam drew in a shuttering breath and froze.

“Wha...” Sam started. “What's...”

With horror Dean imagined Sam's slow renaissance. Question one: how did I get into this bed? Question two: why is my cock out? Question three: why are my brother's boxers below his ass? And the final question: why is there jizz everywhere?

“Dean,” Sam croaked, and Dean hadn't heard him sound so terrified since he'd been five and waking Dean up with his nightmares. It made his heart hurt. “Wha 'appened?”

“It's okay, Sammy, just calm down, you were having a dream.” Dean pulled up his boxers and turned to face Sam. He still looked half asleep, but with wide puppy eyes, the kind that always had Dean feeling like human garbage.

“What'd I do? D'n, did I fuckin'...Jesus Christ.”

“It wasn't your fault, just...” He carefully placed his hands on Sam's shoulders, watching for a flinch, and guided him over to his bed. “Go back to sleep.”

“Okay,” Sam muttered, and he rolled over. Immediately, Sam was snoring, as if nothing had happened. Dean took his first deep breath in an hour. If Sam remembered anything in the morning... there would be hell to pay.

Dean didn't sleep the rest of the night.


	2. The Morning After

Sam was wrenched out of sleep as if someone had thrown cold water on him.

_Dean._

If the half-remembered not-dream was real, then he'd...Sam swung his legs silently to the side of the bed. And he sat there, feeling sick. Why hadn't Dean resisted? Why had Dean been so _understanding_? His hands formed white-knuckled fists before he even realized he was angry.

If he snuck out, hunted on his own for a while, maybe Dean would wake the fuck up and see Sam as the monster he really was. Maybe when he accepted that...Sam could come back. Could be forgiven. _Forgive me for molesting him? For dreaming about fucking him? If he ever does, he'd be a fool._ It was better this way. Sam could stay in one fucking place for once, get a real job, a...girlfriend. In between cases, of course. And for a crazed moment, that's what he was going to do. Even got his coat, said a silent goodbye to the snoring form of his brother, and went out the door to hitchhike to the highway.

But then he remembered how well that went the last time. He stopped in his tracks.

_Fuck._ There goes running away. Such an elegant solution. But it was high time to bring in the ol' Winchester reliable: Don't Talk About It.

So Sam trudged back to the motel room, stole Dean's keys out of his jacket, and drove to get breakfast. Food meant no talking with Dean, and that was good.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When Sam got to the motel, he almost didn't open the door. The threat of what he'd find there stayed his hand every time he reached for the handle. But he wasn't a coward, if he was anything. So he barged in, startled to find Dean sitting on the bed, facing the door, and staring at him already.

“Morning,” Sam said casually.

Dean nodded slowly, still staring. “What'd you bring?”

“Pancakes. And coffee.”

“Sounds great.”

Sam set down the plastic bag and the cardboard coffee holder slowly on the counter. Dean walked over—was he in _the_ boxers?—brushing his back lightly against Sam's front as he grabbed the bag with a massive grin and dug in. Sam stiffened.

“Well? Are you gonna eat any, Sasquatch?” Dean said, muffled through at least two normal-human-sized bites of pancake.

“I will if you don't eat 'em all!”

And just like that, they settled back into their rhythm. Dean _was_ a Winchester after all. Their kind could win the Don't-Talk-About-It Olympics with their hands tied behind their backs. Solid gold, baby.

But Dean was ruining Sam's delusion of normalcy in infuriatingly subtle ways. A lingering glance, one that started and ended at Sam's lips. His side brushing against Sam's so casually, Sam could almost have missed it. And the way his eyes looked up over the cup of coffee, so wide and innocent, but Sam couldn't help but think of what Dean's lips would look like just...yeah. He had to be imagining things.

Dean stood up, threw the remnants of breakfast in the trash. Sam stood up with him, stretching, and when he stopped, Sam saw Dean's gaze flick away. As if he'd been staring? Sam dismissed the thought.

“So we're interviewing the...” Sam started, pulling on his flannel.

“The couple, then the kid across the street--”

“We're interviewing a kid?”

“He saw something! I'm sure of it. Besides, we're using the FBI disguise. His mom will be there the whole time.” Dean wagged his eyebrows at Sam and he groaned.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When they got back to the motel room, Sam's shoulders started to tense. As if the case had been safety and the motel was the danger zone. But that wasn't far from the truth. Out there, they were FBI agents, partners in crime, focused on the job. But in the motel room...

His stomach had been climbing up his throat since they started home, and now it felt like his whole body was threatening to implode on itself. Sam couldn't help but think it was going to happen again. His dreams had been about one thing, one cursed thing, for months. _Jes._ And that had just about driven him to the brink. But now, he'd go back in an instant, if he could be sure he'd just throw a pot at Dean and not try to molest him.

So Sam made up his mind: he would take a bunch of benadryl, chug some whiskey, pass the fuck out, and wake up in his _own bed._

If he just believed that hard enough, maybe it would work out. Fool-proof plan.


	3. The Experiment

Once Sam's breathing slowed, Dean's scheme could be carried out. With the memories of Sam's touch still throbbing along his skin, Dean padded softly to the bathroom, shutting the door as quietly as he could. The scentless lotion, staple of any cheap hotel room, would be his best friend. 

Dean slipped down his boxers, hopped onto the sink counter. He hopped back down, shaking his head, then paused and returned. He had to know. Lots of guys experimented with this, right? Normal.

Dean squirted a liberal amount of lotion into his left hand and scooped some up with his right index finger.

“Well,” Dean whispers to himself. “Guess I just...”

He reached down to his hole and started pushing, the growing discomfort almost staying his hand. But he was way too far into it now. Finally one finger was all the way in. Felt weird, but nothing too painful. Dean took a deep breath, moving his finger in and out. That felt...better. He could feel the walls close up around his finger, imagined how tight it would feel to fuck. How tight it would feel for...Suddenly, Dean brushed his finger against a place in him that sent a shock straight through his groin and he gasped.

His mind reeled. Did guys have a...a g-spot? No, Dean decided, that was a ridiculous idea. Wasn't it? He should have done more research before this. Sam would have. But he kept prodding and pushing at it, and his heart rate quickened. That felt...good. Like, really good. God, Dean was starting to get hard.

Emboldened, he took some more lotion from his left hand and tried a second finger along with the first. It was much harder—the tight furl of his muscle could barely accommodate it. But when it was all the way in, Dean aimed both fingers directly at the spot. He pushed at it harder and harder, moving his fingers only an inch out before slamming them back in and working his cock lazily with his left hand. Dean was finding it harder and harder not to cry out. It was all building too fast, though, so he slowed down, explored other places inside himself. They felt good, too, tight and sensitive.

But he found himself going back, teasing himself with long, slow strokes that ended in a hard press at that spot. He imagined it was Sam slowly, sensually, working his fingers into Dean. His hair falling in his face, his giant hand bruising Dean's hip as he held him in place. Concentration and hunger in Sam's eyes pinning Dean to the bed, like the way he stared at his books, like he wanted to dissect them. Dissect _him_. Make him fall apart.

Soon, too soon, he was gasping for breath, his hole clenching and un-clenching around his fingers uncontrollably.

“Fuck,” Dean whined softly through gritted teeth. Then he came harder than he ever had in his life. All his muscles seized at once and spasmed, and Dean almost fell off the counter. He just barely caught himself with his feet on the tub. Streaks hit the mirror behind him, his undershirt, the sink. After, as he pulled his fingers out gingerly, he felt every inch of the drag past his oversensitive walls and he shuddered.

Dean's limbs were suddenly full of lead, and though he was filthy, a shower sounded like an insurmountable task. Not to mention the optics of a shower in the middle of the night. So, he compromised. He used his undershirt to mop up, flung it into the corner, washed his hands, and ran a wash cloth over his dick. Good enough.

Dragging himself back to his bed, Dean breathed deeply. No wonder that was a thing. It was... incredible. He'd avoided it like the plague before, too scared to make what he felt toward Sam more real, give it more of a stranglehold on his life and his body than it already had. But now...He was already formulating plans to try again when he fell asleep.


	4. Night 2

For the second time in as many nights, Dean shot awake, held in place by Sam's massive frame. He really needed to work on his reflexes. He groaned softly. A shock of arousal ran through him so powerfully, he was almost nauseated. This time, Sam shoved his boxers down below his ass immediately. Dean's heart pounded.

Spit soaked fingers probed blindly around Dean's entrance and when they found it, one slipped in to the first joint. Dean was still stretched and slightly lubed from his little experiment, so Sam's fingers moved easier than his had at first. It was...intense. Different than his own fingers. And then it just kept going. Jesus, Sam's fingers were long. And he added another one. Then it was starting to burn, but Sam's ridiculously long fingers moved in just the right way and— _fuck_. Dean jumped, but Sam's arms held him still. That shouldn't be so hot, Dean thought to himself. But it was too late to be righteous. Might as well enjoy it.

Sam's breath was deafening in Dean's ear, and Sam was starting to mutter things that Dean could just barely catch. “G'nna fuck you, D'n,” was loud and clear. Dean's mouth dried out and his dick pulsed, angry at being neglected, as if it hadn't shot ten feet just hours before.

Sam's cock lined up at Dean's entrance and paused, and for a crazed moment, Dean thought Sam had woken up. But he felt more wetness coat his hole and he swallowed his heart back down into his chest. Sam's cock stretched Dean more than he thought possible, and logic dictated that he should be worried about that. After all, he'd never done more than fingers before, and absolutely nothing before that night—wasn't this supposed to hurt? Like, really bad? But he mostly felt an intense pressure taking his breath away, the sliding of Sam deeper and deeper into him, the claws of Sam's hands on his hip and chest drawing him impossibly tighter.

A broken “Fuck, yes,” rose up clearly out of the litany of mutters and Dean wondered not for the first time what the fuck he was doing, not stopping Sam from doing...this. Until Sam's hips snapped out and back in and Dean saw stars. He tasted blood in his mouth from where he'd been biting his cheek off, trying not to startle Sam into wakefulness, especially now he had his _dick_ in his _ass._

Sam started thrusting in earnest, and Dean's dick, shriveled from the pressure and unfamiliar sensations—and yes, some pain—began to show interest again. Sam's hands wandered, never releasing their vice grip on Dean's body. His fingers pinched one of Dean's nipples, flicked it softly. Dean let out a loud moan before he could stop himself, freezing. But Sam never wavered, just fucked Dean harder.

Dean could feel Sam incredibly deep in his guts, every bit of his cock stroking his insides, and punching mercilessly over his spot, sending shocks and tingles up and down his whole body. He felt hot, like he needed to crawl out of his skin. Dean was rock hard and leaking more precum than he remembered ever having done before. Then Sam wasn't hardly coming out of him before slamming back in, gyrating his hips to rub all around Dean's insides. Sam knew what he was doing, building something up in Dean he'd never felt before, not even in his experiment. It was making him slowly lose his mind.

“Feel so good, D'n, so hot, wanna come 'n you,” Sam muttered, nipping at Dean's neck. Dean whimpered at the thought—being fucked out on Sam's cock, full of his brother's come—and came hard, all but wailing as his orgasm was fucked relentlessly out of him and his mind was picked apart piece by piece. Dean's hole fluttered almost painfully on Sam's cock and Sam groaned in his ear. Dean could feel Sam's come deep inside him, being pushed deeper and slicking Sam's cock as Sam just. Kept. Fucking him. Soon, Sam was too soft to keep going. But he never pulled out of Dean, never took his arms off him. Dean held his breath.

Sam's come was still in his ass, being held there with his cock as if it were a butt plug, and the thought was starting, incredibly, to make Dean hard. Again. Before he could stop himself, he found his hips slowly rolling against Sam. He relished the feeling of Sam brushing up against his walls, just barely stroking the right places, even while soft. But he wasn't so soft anymore. Dean gasped as his movements started to fill Sam's cock with blood. It speared deeper into him with each passing second, stretching him deliciously again, and finally, Sam's hips started to move.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sam woke up slowly, as he often did when his sleepwalking flared up. But he wasn't alone. Sam swore. So much for his Benadryl and Jack Daniels plan.

And then all the sensations his body was experiencing slammed into him at once—the overwhelming smell of sweat and sex and Dean's hair, Dean's skin flush with his. Dean's little huffs and whines that sounded as loud as gunshots in the silent room.

His dick, quickly hardening, deep in his brother's ass.

_Ok, don't panic. Don't panic. Don't panic._

_Don't hurt him._

_Don't panic._

Sam's muscles seized as he fought the urge to rip away from Dean. His heart pounded in his ears.

But when the rushing sound subsided, Sam started to pay attention. Dean wasn't struggling like Sam had feared. He was grinding himself back onto Sam's dick, letting out little sighs that sounded almost...frustrated? Desperate. Sam reached around to brush against Dean's cock. He was rock hard. Was Dean...enjoying this?

As Sam's dick hardened, he could feel his own come inside Dean. The thrill that knowledge sent down Sam's spine had him chasing the feeling, the slickness, deeper and deeper into Dean's tight body. And suddenly he couldn't remember why he'd been so intent on keeping this from happening.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was slow and tortuous this time, but brutal, Sam drawing his cock out to the tip before slamming back in as hard as he could. And that felt almost hard enough to break bones. But Dean couldn't care less.

Suddenly, Sam flipped Dean over onto his stomach. One hand shoved his head into the pillow and the other pinned his lower back into the mattress, tilting Dean's pelvis. He squealed—muffled, thankfully, by the pillow—as Sam nailed his spot over and over.

“That's it, Dean, take my dick,” Sam growled, and Dean was way past caring that his voice wasn't slurred by sleep anymore.

“God, yes, _Sam,_ ” Dean wailed. “Fuck...harder.”

Sam obeyed, the sound of slapping skin echoing so loudly in the room Dean was sure the neighbors could hear. Dean's still-muffled cries were starting to sound like sobs. White hot tangles of pleasure were building and building all over his body, and he was sure countless times they would end in orgasm, but they just kept growing until Dean was practically screaming.

“Gonna come in you again, Dean, fuck, so hot,” Sam panted.

“Please, God, Sam. Fucking do it, I'm gonna come again,” Dean keened, bunching up the bedding in fists as a painfully intense dry orgasm wracked him. He couldn't control how his muscles spasmed, and he felt himself clench rhythmically around Sam.

“Fuck, I feel you coming, baby,” Sam groaned, “Clenching so good for me.”

It only took a few more bruising thrusts for Sam to come deep inside Dean. He kept fucking through his orgasm, and Dean was so weak he had no choice but to take it, moaning hoarsely. Before he could worry about how monumentally sore he was going to be in the morning, though, he felt the last tendrils of his consciousness float away, and he passed out.


End file.
